The Snape Chronicles
by YakotiDevil
Summary: argh, my following plot was ruined by book 6! Ah well, folks I suppose I must leave now so consider this work COMPLETE
1. Chpt 1

Severus cowered in a dark corner moaning slightly with each of his mother's cries. He heard the dull smack of his father's hand as it struck his mother's face. Anger rose within him, at his father, for his drunken mistreatment, at his mother, for letting the bastard carry on so. And at himself, for doing nothing, for sitting, afraid, a bystander to her every scream. "SMACK", his mother was in too much pain to even whimper upon the hulking brute's last blow. The silhouettes of her battered form laying still at the feet the monster flashed before his eyes. A lump rose within his throat and the pit of rage within his chest became too much for him. Ignoring the jets of icy pain that shot through his thin frame, he rose from his dark hole, ready to defend the powerless woman. His father's bloodshot, hazy glare now focused upon the boy, and his drunken aggression found itself a new vent.

The next day, he purposely waited until his father was gone to the Ministry before rising. Every bone in his body ached from the beating of last night, and looking into his mirror he saw that his pale face was blackened with bruises. Limping out into their meager excuse for a kitchen he spotted his mother painfully struggling to get breakfast. "Good Morning, Severus", she said, attempting a cheery greeting, in spite of her obvious misery. He smiled thinly in response, marveling at her ability to continue on, to feign joy in the face of grief. Looking out at the gorgeous summer morning, he was reminded that he would soon be gone, attending his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. Mixed feelings crossed his mind, excitement at the prospect of leaving this hell, guilt at the thought of abandoning his mother to his father's mercy and finally, dread, knowing that he would soon again have to deal with that prig, James Potter. How could someone still whine when they had practically everything he wondered, reflecting upon his nemesis and glancing over the Daily Prophet. It seemed to be mostly news of more muggle murders, committed by Voldemort during his rapid ascension to power. Severus had often times heard him spoken of as one of the most powerful wizards yet living, to be defeated only by the great Dumbledore. Some said he was a hero, pushing for the continued cleanliness of wizard blood, others, who feared even his very name, a tyrant. Severus himself had no opinion on the matter; he had his own troubles at the moment.

But later that evening he would again reflect upon Voldemort's teachings, when his father,but a half-blood, returned home again, drunker that ever. With a stupid laugh, he hurled his son into a closet, magically sealing the door locked. From his dank prison, the boy was forced to listen to his mother's every howl and shriek of terror and agony, their deafening sound only conquered by the noise of his father's intoxicated curses and bellow of cruel jubilation. In a state of panic and frenzy, Severus yelled for and begged the filthy mudblood to stop, but his pleas were in vane. The torture continued, long into the night, finally ending with a dull thud, at which all noise ended.


	2. Chpt 2

I listened, heart full of disgust to my father's rehearsed excuses, recited flawlessly to the mediwizards as they brought away my mother's battered corpse. As the lines flowed, smoothly dripping from the fiend's lips, they reverberated within my mind. Sobs of, "It was a spell gone wrong", "She was everything to me" and "I loved her" repeating endlessly, madly, in my head

As each of the man's false tears fell, I felt my anger increase, threatening to explode my distraught heart unless the truth was told. So, hardly realizing what I was doing, I stood from my seat. Raw pain burning through me, I screamed at my father's back "Lying, Filthy Mudblood!!" "Murdering Bastard!, you've killed her, she loved you and you've murdered her!"

I knew I was in trouble when he whirled on me, murder in his eyes, his large, fat face red with fury, an sure demand for my silence, but the words were now flowing passionately and uncontrolled; I would not be shut down. I recounted the years of abuse and fear, my life story, telling the listening mediwizards everything, dredging up forgotten memories long blocked by hurt.

But I was not to be saved; his deceit won, for in a quick burst of thought I would have never expected such a brute capable of, my honest tirade was attributed to shock and "a desperate need to blame someone ". I was once again taken back to the hellhole, the place I knew as home, my father's said reason being I "needed rest".

But it wasn't a nap I would receive upon reaching the seedy shack that passed as a house. No, it was instead a beating like I had never before endured, endless hours of merciless agony, blow upon blow connecting with my body. He wasn't drunk this time, but his anger at my outburst more than made up for that. He bellowed loudly, as his calloused fist beat my head; his only coherent words were insults. I felt bones crack as he hurled me into the counter. When he was through, I lay bloody on the floor, gasping for air

But the torture didn't end there; my ill luck wouldn't allow him to be done. Tonight he went even farther in advancing his sadistic ways.

The battering had left me weak, to weak to resist him as he drug my broken form into the room once shared with my mother. He then threw me onto the bed, where I was painfully raped. I had now, due to my mother's absence, taken on the role of his father's sole punching bag and official bedfellow.

The next day, I awoke in shock, barely able to stand, every part of me screaming in agony as I tried to rise from bed. I would have collapsed, back onto the ragged cot, had it not been for him, roaring and swearing for his breakfast.

Later on, after another beating (the eggs weren't done right) I found myself alone in the house, painfully alone, for, normally I would have had my mother there, her bruised face smiling through the pain (I had gained a new respect for her now knowing what her nights were like), telling me of better days. But now she was gone, her pure life stolen and her spirit stifled at the hands of a mudblood, a filthy, impure monster. Why did it have to be her? What had she done to deserve this life? Questions raced through my mind as I flipped open the paper. It was filled with more news of Voldemort, more accounts of his vendetta against the half-bloods, stories of brutal murders like that of my mother, only, against those like my father.

That night I was again soundly beaten and raped, but this time while unconscious. The next morning I again woke painfully, again made breakfast and again was pummeled for it. This became a pattern of life, my normal, just like it was for mom.

And then one day, just after my 17th birthday, my life changed, you might say, in a flash (a bad pun). The Dark Lord (who I had since, for obvious reasons, come to agree with) finally got the worst of the half bloods; he took care of my problem in a burst of green light.


End file.
